


A Shock, Fine China, and Walburga Black

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - Drarry [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Slash, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco have returned to England for the first time in 6 years, bringing with them their 4 year old son Scorpius Mycroft and a scandalous piece of news that may just be a bit too much shock for the wizarding world. Tea with Weasleys, and a row with a certain old portrait also colour their lives at Number 12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shock, Fine China, and Walburga Black

**Author's Note:**

> In order to make things work in our Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover universe, The Battle of Hogwarts took place on May 2nd, 1923.  
> The events of the Harry Potter series (up until HBP) are pretty much the same.

He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a shakey breath. This was it. This was the moment they’d been planning. The moment they’d been preparing for.  
        He’d known, when the eyes and ears of the Ministry workers had turned suddenly and expectantly towards him. Towards them. He’d known at least half of them went running to the floo. Sending out the owls to the press while they sat behind closed doors with their solicitor, a goblin, a representative of the Ministry’s legal department as well as the head of the Department of International Cooperation. No doubt someone from the Prophet was out there right now. Circling around and sniffing for blood. Dying to get the first picture. The first poison pen article.  
        He felt a hand on his shoulder. Giving a gentle squeeze through the green robes he’d worn because they bring out the color of his eyes. Long fingers trailed down his arm, calming him with their familiar touch, to rest at his elbow. Lips brushed the shell of his ear. “We don’t have to do this. I’ll distract them and you can make a run for the floo.”  
        “No,” Harry said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. To take a moment and mentally affix the mask he’d been so well at wearing during the war. The one that said he was confident. That he was determined and ready for anything… When really he was scared out of his wits and sick with worry.  
        “Are you sure?” Hot breath against his ear sent shivers down his spine.  
        “We can’t keep hiding. Besides, it’d be nice to actually go out on the street like we used to.”  
        “This isn’t Venice, Prongslet. This is London. They’ll grab hold and never let us go again.”  
        Harry let a small smile creep into his face and turned his head to face them. “They want a show. Let’s give them a show. We can see how well these charms the Countess gave us work. And test out that new spell I crafted.”  
        A head was shaken and a breath held was released.  
        Arms were linked and steps forward taken.  
        The doors before them were pushed open and a mob of cumbersome cameras and floating Quick Quotes Quills were scribbling away.  
        Harry muttered something under his breath as his fingers lightly brushed the wand hidden up his sleeve in reassurance.  
        “Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter over here!” cried one voice he thought he recognized.  
        He shielded his face from the bright flash. The arm linked in his own slipped away only to reappear around his waist as they pushed through the throng, leaving demanding cries of comments and questions in their wake.  
        “Mr. Malfoy!” someone to their left shouted out, trying to get their attention.  
        The arm tightened when Harry turned to the voice that had called out the different name. And, with his mask of complete calm in place, he smiled to the young man. “Yes? Can I help you?”  
        Silence fell quickly.  
        “Uhm. Uh… I… Sorry. I- What I mean- Not you, Mr. Potter- I… I…” And the poor young man sort of tapered off, swallowing hard. He was quite nervous.  
        “Oh. My apologies Mr…”  
        “Wo-Wo-Wommack,” he stammered, trying to recover.  
        “Well Mr. Wommack,” Harry said, “What paper do your represent?”  
        “Q-Quibbler, sir.”  
        “A good title. How are the Lovegoods? Doing well, I hope. Do give Luna my regards, would you? And you’ll want to get that stammer looked at. It’s a sign of prolonged exposure to nargles, you know.”  
        Mr. Wommack swallowed hard as Harry turned to see Draco doing his best to keep from laughing. Only those who had spent years in the man’s company could see the cracks of laughter in the near-impenetrable Malfoy Mask. And though outwardly Draco seemed to be glaring, he seemed to Harry to be practically dying of internal glee. “We should make some sort of a statement, Mr. Malfoy,” Draco said loud enough for those whispering closeby to hear. “After all, seeing the two of us at the same time must mean Christmas has come early for these fine reporters.”  
        Harry’s calm smile turned to a devious smirk. “Oh, yes indeed Mr. Potter. I’m positive they’ve all found this to be quite the little scandal.”  
        “Should we tell them where we went after the war Mr. Malfoy?”  
        Harry nearly choked at the childish amusement in his husband’s eyes. They were having far too much fun at the expense of the reporters. “I’m sure they’ll make something up as always Mr. Potter. After all, it’s what they do best. Don’t want to start going honest on us. Then where will we get our entertainment?”  
        Draco’s arm tightened around his waist, pulling him just a bit closer. Quills scratched parchment so quickly Harry was afraid there’d be friction fires starting soon. Flashbulbs and smoke. More pictures.  
        More pictures that they both knew would more than likely not turn out thanks to the Perception Charms that Countess Zabini had told them to wear around their necks to help them with just such a problem.  
        “Good point.” He gave a short laugh and started forward again, and Harry fell right into step. “The floo’s this way dear. We’d better hurry. We don’t want Andromeda getting worried again.”  
        The pair managed to force their way out of the crowd to the floos. They could have apparated, sure. But where would have been the fun in that?  
                                                 **o0o**  
        Two days later, Harry and Draco were still absolutely giddy. Each time one showed the other a copy of the newspapers, especially The Daily Prophet, every word printed was unintelligible gibberish and every picture of them had resulted in a myriad of comical prank pictures ranging from a picture of a crup running in circles to a picture of paint drying.  
        They were still laughing about it over tea when they heard the fireplace in the parlour roar to life.  
        “Which one do you think it will be?”  
        “Ten galleons says it’s the Weasel and the wife.”  
        “That’s a fools bet,” Harry said. “Should I fetch two more cups?”  
        “I don’t want those two anywhere near my fine china,” Draco snapped a bit too quickly.  
        Harry chuckled, but transfigured the lid to the sugar bowl into a teacup. One of the two silver spoons followed suit. He’d just finished pouring two fresh cups of tea for their arrivals when they heard what Harry had once termed the Harsh Voice of Reason.  
        “Harry James Potter!”  
        “Hermione, there’s no need to shout, we’re just in the den,” Harry called, thankful they had left the door open (if only to listen for Andromeda bringing their son back home from his weekend visit with Teddy).  
        Draco had moved to sit on the small two seater beside him, opening up one of the chairs for their guests. But also so he could see the looks on their faces as they entered the den. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley did not dissapoint. Hermione looked at them sitting together with an annoyed, but amused, roll of the eyes. Ron on the other hand…  
        “What in the name of Godric Gryffindor! So it IS true?!”  
        Harry couldn’t help it. So before he took a sip of his tea he looked to Draco and said, “Why Mr. Potter, I have no idea what on earth Ron is referring to.”  
        Draco leaned forward to reach for his cup. “I assure you Mr. Malfoy, I’m not entirely sure myself.”  
        Hermione shook her head and broke the tense moment with a stiffled laugh. Taking her husband by the wrist, she pulled him over to the waiting chairs opposite their old friend. Once seated, she fixed her and Ron’s tea the way they liked it and gave her husband his cup. Ron was still too stunned to articulate more than “Bloody hell mate, the ferret?”  
        Draco cleared his throat. “I had hoped we’d moved past this in our sixth year when Harry and I explained to you the nature of our changed relationship.”  
        Ron’s eyes narrowed. “ **Still?** I thought you two were just some sort of… _fling_.”  
        Harry laughed, shaking his head as he set his cup on the saucer before settling back fully on the seat. “Ron. Really. You’re not the only one allowed to marry your school crush.”  
        Hermione couldn’t wait her turn any longer. There were so many things she was dying to know. Dying to ask them. And what little contact she’d had with Harry over the last month hadn’t given her much information to draw from. So she started at the first logical question.  
        “Where in merlin’s name did you go, Harry?”  
        “You barge into our home after the biggest news story to spring up since the war just walks right out of the ministry and all you can ask is…” Draco turned his head to look at his husband, eyes wide. “Harry, love, is she serious?” He looked to Ron, then back to Hermione. “Are you serious? What kind of inane question is that? He left. He went far away. Far enough away that he felt he had to force me to write you holiday greeting cards.”  
        Draco crossed his arms over his chest like a petulent child rather than a grown man and leaned back against the seat. “Honestly. Did marrying the Weasel affect your intelligence?”  
        Hermione was about to rebuke him when Harry’s voice firmly took him into hand. In Italian. Well, that was… unexpected.  
        “ _E ‘solo una questione logica, Drago. Fidati di me, c’è un metodo per la sua follia.”_ **(1)**  
        Draco rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms, but his tone was equally firm, and, Hermione noted, he used Weasel as a proper noun. “ _Va bene, va bene. Ma se il Weasel comincia a fare domande stupide-_ ” **(2)**  
        “ _Avevi promesso che sarebbe comportati bene Drago.”_ **(3)** Harry’s voice was lighter.  
        “In English, please!” Ron bellowed from his chair. “Not everyone understands gibberish.”  
        Draco huffed. “Fine. You’ve no sense of culture, Weasel.”  
        “I told you to be nice.”  
        “And I told you I’ll continue to call him Weasel.”  
        “Boys, please,” Hermione laughed, drawing the three of them into amusement with her. “So, Italian. That settles that then. A general region.”  
        Draco shifted, prompting Harry to lean forward enough for Draco’s arm to slide behind his back while the Man-Who-Lived-Twice settled against him comfortably. “You could have traced the cards, you know. I was half hoping you would.”  
        Ron puffed out his cheeks in annoyance and gave Draco a pointed look. “We tried. But someone charmed them to burst into flames the moment we attempted.”  
        “Draco!”  
        “I told you to write them yourself, scarhead.”  
        Hermione watched them like a hawk. True, she and her husband had been aware of their friend’s secretive relationship with Malfoy during sixth year, and the last days of the war when Draco had been brought out of hiding by the Order to help them fight and reclaim the castle. But she honestly hadn’t expected it to last.  
        And having been Harry’s friend for eight long and trying years before his dissapearance, she was no stranger to his _Everything’s Fine_ face. Yet… Here he was. Smiling. Happy. And actually enjoying himself. The Harry she only ever saw when the man was riding a broom or playing Quiddich.  
        And as the three boys, because the way they were carrying on she couldn’t think of them as grown men, continued their banter she made a mental note to pull Draco aside at some point. It was obviously too late to give him the _If you hurt my best friend_ speech, but she could still give him a proper dressing down for not inviting them to whatever binding ceremony they’d had.  
        She was pulled by her thoughts when Draco had asked if she’d like more tea.  
        “Oh. Oh, yes please. Sorry. I was just thinking.”  
        “Told you,” Harry said, almost…  
        “Did you just sass me?” Ron asked, blinking.  
        Harry smirked. A look that seemed to fit more on Malfoy’s face than his. “And what if I did? Going to arrest me, Auror Weasley?” A brow quirked up behind his glasses, almost in challenge. But playful as well.  
        It made Ron squirm, just a bit. He tugged at his collar. “Hey,” Hermione said, but couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “Stop flirting with my husband. You’ve got your own… Speaking of,” she said, finally working her thoughts back to the reason for their impromptu visit. “You two still have a lot to answer for.”  
        Draco sighed, looking down at Harry. “Well, I tried to distract them. But she’s seen through my ruse.”  
        “You’ve always been rubbish at distractions. You can lie like a perfect snake, but leave the distractions and troublemaking to the lions.”  
        “Prat.”  
        “Your prat,” Harry replied with a smug look, then turned his attention back to Hermione.  
        Ron shook his head. “Are you two _always_ like this?”  
        “No. There’s also nice quiet sleep. We are only human, after all,” Draco drawled. “Now, as I’ve successfully steered the conversation off course once again… I suppose you’ll be wanting to know what we did to the newspapers.”  
        “Among other things,” Hermione said with a nod. “You know the only one with a good picture of you two and anything at all is the Quibbler.”  
        Both men nodded, well aware of the anomoly. “Of course,” Harry said. “It’s the only one that ever printed the truth. With the exception of the time when Luna was taken prisoner. But we don’t hold that against Mr. Lovegood.”  
        Draco agreed. “I’d have done the same thing if our boy was taken if it meant he’d be safe.” He sighed, feeling Harry tense slightly against him. A stroke against his side with his fingertips from behind his back was all that was needed to soothe him. “The point is,” he said in all seriousness. “The Quibbler was able to print photos because they didn’t intend to use them maliciously. And, like Harry said, it’s an honest paper, run by people we know and trust. They hadn’t printed lies, therefore their articles weren’t affected.”  
        Hermione leaned closer. “Affected by what?”  
        Ron had, since Draco’s remark about a boy, started looking around the room to notice a few odd things out of place. Childrens’ books neatly stacked on a small wooden table with a little wooden chair beside it. A handful of pictures on the mantle. Some of them wizarding photos, others from the muggle contraptions. So those didn’t move. Some of just Draco and Harry. Some of each man alone with a baby. A couple with a little boy sitting in a boat on what looked like a channel of some sort.  
        From the mantle he looked further back into the room to see a few wooden toys scattered across the floor in the corner of the room. He let his gaze linger there before tearing it away and turning his attention back to the conversation. He noticed Harry watching him as Draco and Hermione discussed the charms and spells they’d used on the press, and hearing that it only affected stories about the pair of them and no other topic. And how the spell could be broken… by publishing only the truth.  
        But Ron didn’t care. He should have. He was an auror. He was still in his uniform, as a matter of fact, as his wife had dragged him here right when he’d gotten home. He had every reason to arrest the pair of them for tampering with public businesses. But Ron, like his old friend, held no love for the press.  
        Harry gave Ron a very small smile before returning to the conversation, which had circled back around to where he, and by extension Draco, had been for the last six years.  
        “Venice,” Ron said.  
        Hermione turned in her chair to face him. “How on earth did you reach that conclusion Ronald? Neither of them have said anything-“  
        “They were speaking Italian.” He pointed to the pictures on the mantle. “Gondolas and channels. See, I do pay attention.”  
        “Only when it’s not Potions,” Harry remarked, causing Ron to turn red in the face.  
        “Yeah, well. At least I got my NEWTs.”  
        Draco laughed. It was a sound foreign to the two extra Gryffindors, and they were unsure what to make of it. It wasn’t like the snickering they’d known in school. Nor was it the practiced laughter of superiority. It was an honest to goodness laugh. And they were surprisingly uncomfortable with it.  
        “So did we,” Draco said. “We sat them at the Italian Ministry. Unfortunately, we had to learn to language beforehand. They didn’t offer it in English.”  
        Harry nodded, a bit red in the face. “We hadn’t thought about the language barrier before we left. Though it was useful I suppose. I could finally stop pointing at the things I wanted in the shops and sounding like a complete imbicile. And, with it being a derivative of Latin, it helped me properly enunciate my vocal spells.”  
        “No accidental spells?” Hermione asked carefully.  
        Draco frowned, looking at Harry a moment. “Don’t tell me you-“  
        “It was only a few times. Honestly, anyone could have made that mistake. I hadn’t meant to turn Neville into a lizard. Nor did I intend to turn Dumbledore into a potato in second year.”  
        Draco nearly choked on his laughter. “He’s lucky one of the house elves didn’t cook him and eat him.” He stopped when he noticed the three very pale, very haunted faces looking at him. Realization dawned… “He almost was, wasn’t he?”  
        “Luckly we were able to find him before word got back to the rest of the teachers,” Harry said solemnly.  
        Hermione nodded. “They’d peeled half of him. It was horrible. When he was transfigured back, he’d lost half his robes!”  
        Ron spluttered then, having just taken a sip of tea when Hermione had mentioned the robes.  
        “Don’t drop my teacup,” Draco warned him, silver eyes narrowed despite knowing it wasn’t one of his priceless fine china pieces but a transfigured spoon. It was still a nice teacup.  
        The seriousness settled for only a moment before their lively discussion resumed, this time without further mention of the Head Potato.  
        Ron and Hermione listened as Harry and Draco, but mostly Harry, told them all about Venice and the Countess Zabini. Their villa and the strange muggle religious holidays the city observed. And about their early language problems, which Draco was sure to point out that Harry still had a little trouble understanding Venetian (which was NOT the same as Italian). About their trips to Rome and Florence and an ill-fated week in Sicily.  
        Hermione kept asking questions, and Ron gave a few comments here and there. The pair hadn’t divulged everything, and the Weasleys knew they’d get nothing more than Harry and Draco were willing to give, but they were just a bit glad to see their old friend again.  
        Even if it was on the arm of the slimiest git they’d ever known.  
                                                      **o0o**  
        It had been just over a week since the Weasel and his wife had visited them, and had thankfully missed the arrival of their son. It was a topic Harry and Draco did not want to discuss with just anyone. And Draco in particular felt far more protective of the boy than he did for Harry, though Harry Potter could always take care of himself.  
        This evening found Draco standing on the landing before the sleeping and covered portrait of Walburga Black. He had been sitting on the steps all morning after the portrait had had a particularly nasty outburst after their son had accidentally dropped some of his toys near her. And she’d continued to shout her filth at the boy until Draco and Harry were able to arrive and sweep him away from her.  
        The portrait, which had been covered at the time was opened and Draco glared daggers at her. The two had a staring match with the wails of a crying four year old in the background. Walburga had only silenced when Draco sneered at her and proclaimed that within 24 hours, he would have her forcibly taken from his wall, permanent sticking charm or not.  
        So every free moment he had was spent eyeing the portrait even after he’d covered her back up. After breakfast, he sat on the stairs until lunch. After lunch he paced in front of her, examining the wall until dinner. And after dinner, and after Hermione had come to fetch little Scorpius at Harry’s request, Draco was standing on the landing. Glaring at the canvas as if to burn a hole into the fabric and burn the bloody painting with only his thoughts and his mind.  
        “I’ve tried everything,” Harry said when he came up to try and dissuade his husband. “Nothing works. Even Hermione’s tried.”  
        “Hermione doesn’t have the exhaustive knowledge of dark magic that I do. I’ll find a solution and that bitch will not be screaming at my son, or any future children of mine, again.”  
        For a moment, Harry couldn’t help but smile at that. But only for a moment. They’d talked, of course, about having another child but…  
        He left those doubts alone for the time being and returned his thoughts to Draco and Mrs. Black. “This isn’t Venice, and since we’re officially citizens of England again, we can’t claim diplomatic immunity.”  
        Draco chuckled. “Or that we’ve been stuck with a strega again.”  
        “Worst idea you’ve ever had love. We were never meant to run a wizarding bed and breakfast.” Harry sighed, tilted his head up to give him a peck on the cheek. “Whatever you do, don’t let me wake up to find the house full of aurors.”  
        After Harry had gone to bed, Draco began testing various dark spells and charms and hexes on the portrait but to no avail. Most simply failed. Some bounced off. And one was absorbed by the painting.  
        But that one… was all that Draco needed after he saw the damage it did to the wall around it. A wicked grin spread across his face and, holding his wand steady, he repeated the spell over and over again. Concentrating it at different points of the painting. He did, of course, wake up the bitter old hag in the portrait, and she went on yelling and shouting. Harry had poked his head out once, out of habit, to scream back down at her to shut up so he could sleep.  
        Draco told him to cast a silencing charm, and then another so he wouldn’t wake the neighbors, because it was going to be a long night.  
        When Harry stumbled downstairs the next morning, it was to find a sleeping Draco and a hole in the wall. An upside down Walburga Black hanging onto a bit of background (using her mouth for something other than screaming for a change). And lots of debris. He’d woken Draco and had him go down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.  
        “How’d you do it then? Everyone’s been trying for years to get that wretched thing down-“  
        “You won’t like it,” Draco said.  
        “Please. Just in case we come across something else in this rickety old house. Or the other ones for that matter.”  
        “You’re really not going to like it.” Draco set down his cup without taking a single sip.  
        Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He’d just taken a sip when Draco smirked triumphantly.  
        “Did you know that the cruciatis apparently only affects the walls to which paintings are affixed?”  
        Harry spluttered, dribbling tea down his front and dropping his cup. Draco narrowed his eyes. Not his fine china, no, but another favorite antique set of cups. The special ones that don’t spill when you dropped them.  
        “Are you insane! I told you not to-“  
        “I cloaked my magical signature. There’s no way…” He broke off when they heard footsteps on the stairs. “Parlour,” he snapped, grabbing up his wand.  
        When they’d reached the stairs, it was to find the Minister of Magic himself in their home, staring at the space that had once been occupied by the bitter old portrait. “What-“  
        “I can explain!” Draco exclaimed, making sure his wand was within sight of the aurors behind the minister.  
        Kingsley looked past Draco to the half-dressed Harry, covered in his morning tea and staring angrily at the aurors as if daring them to arrest his husband. “Someone in this house cast the cruciatis curse no less than 201 times last night.”  
        Harry hit Draco on the arm. “You stupid prat!”  
        Kingsley coughed to get their attention as Harry raised his hand to hit him again. “Gentlemen, please. Now that I see what it was for, I’m not surprised. No wonder Albus couldn’t get the damnable thing off the wall.”  
        Draco glared at the portrait still with bits of wall attatched to the back of her, sitting on the floor. “Bitch made my son cry.”  
        “Be that as it may, Mr. M-“  
        “Potter,” both Harry and Draco said, throwing Kingsley a little off guard. But he quickly righted himself. “The cruciatis is still illegal-“  
        “When performed on living, breathing humans. That, sir,” Harry said from behind his husband, “Is a very nasty portrait of a very bitter, bigoted old hag and I will not have it in my house any longer!”  
        “Harry-“  
        “ **LIFE DEBT**!” Harry cried out, causing everyone now to be thoroughly confused. Harry pushed past Draco and stood, one hand on his hip, the other pointed directly at the Minister of Magic himself. “I’m calling in the life debt owed by Kingsley Shacklebolt-“  
        “I don’t owe-“  
        “In accordance with the fact that his life was personally saved by my defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort on May 2nd, 1923!” He made sure he was nice and loud so that there could be no mistaking his declaration. “In return, I demand that my husband NOT be taken in for the use of the cruciatis curse on an innocent wall, which I remind you, is NOT against the law here nor in any other wizarding nation save Brazil. But their laws are a bit… Peculiar.”  
        “Harry, now you’re just being ridiculous.”  
        “No, I’m not. You owe me 1 life debt, and I’m calling you on it. If you don’t believe me, I will show you the family grimoire where, as all wizards know, each and every deed is recorded that benefits a wizard’s family. Each unique grimoire also has an entire section devoted to the collection of life debts. And let me tell you, mine is rather large.” Green eyes narrowed. “Now get that thing out of my house, and leave my husband alone!”  
        Some of the aurors near the top of the stairs took the house shaking as a sign to run for it. The shaking only stopped when Draco put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, but neither man said a word.  
        After a long, tense moment, Kingsley nodded. “Done.”  
        That evening, Harry had brought Scorpius back from his aunt Hermione’s and showed him the empty space in the wall where the mean old portrait had once been. The little boy had been so amazed, and had called Draco his hero for sending the lady away.  
        It wasn’t until a visit to the head goblin at Gringotts, 57 years later, that Draco and Harry learned of Walburga Black’s ultimate fate. She was stuck behind soundproof glass and kept as a reminder of what happens to witches and wizards who let their family fall into financial ruin.  
        Walburga was still as unpleasant as ever.

**Author's Note:**

> The Lorem Ipsum spell was inspired by, yeah, that fake language programers, writers, and web designers use to fill in blank space with text so that we can all see what something looks like with text in it.
> 
> ITALIAN NOTES - We used Google Translator for this so…. Sorry if it sucks. We really wanted to use Venetian since, y’know, they had lived in Venice and all but ah well. Do with what we have.
> 
> (1) _E ‘solo una questione logica, Drago. Fidati di me, c’è un metodo per la sua follia._  
>  It’s only a logical question, Dragon. Trust me, there’s a method to her madness.
> 
> (2) _Va bene, va bene. Ma se il Weasel comincia a fare domande stupide-_  
>  Alright, fine. But if the Weasel starts asking stupid questions-
> 
> (3) _Avevi promesso che sarebbe comportati bene Drago._  
>  You promised you’d behave yourself Dragon.


End file.
